


The Love of Cruel Discipline

by incogneato



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Canon diversion, Concussions, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gratuitous Violence, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Object Insertion, Rape, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneato/pseuds/incogneato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "why not Sam losing the fight with Rumlow and barely making it out of the building for all together different reasons? They fight like in the movie, but Rumlow fights dirty and he knows Sam's alone in the building and takes advantage. Stun batons, violence, found object rape, author's choice how it actually goes.</p><p>+ Sam gets away after, but how does he deal with it? He barely knows Steve, Nat and Fury, so who does he go to for support, if anyone?</p><p>++ Steve and Rumlow had a trash fuckbuddies thing going on before everything went to shit, so Steve knows as soon as Sam says he had a run in with Rumlow that something trash happened, but Steve doesn't know what to do about it or how to be supportive."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of Cruel Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> Having rewatched Sam and Rumlow's fight in the Triskelion multiple times at this point, I feel like it's obvious that Sam was losing and was about to get his ass stomped into the floor and ground into the carpet when the Helicarrier came along and saved his ass/destroyed the building.

Keep Rumlow away from the Council, Sam had been told, and so like a good soldier, he listened.

He thought he might have a chance at winning the fight at the start. Rumlow was a better fighter, but Sam was bigger, heavier, had more bulk to him. He could hold his own even if he was taking a lot more hits. He got the occasional knee in there, managed to hit Rumlow a few times in the kidneys, and he knew Rumlow had to be hurting. Never mind that Sam was hurting more. He just had to keep Rumlow on this floor for as long as possible, keep him away from the Council, keep him occupied until all the Helicarriers had been brought down and the world was safe once again. 

Sam ducked a second too late and took a solid punch in the face. He could feel his nose break, an explosion of sharp pain followed immediately by numbness that spread from the center all the way out to his entire face, like all the nerves had gone cold and dead. Blood trickled down the back of his throat and he swallowed thickly, no time to do anything about it because Rumlow was tireless, relentless. Sam had to duck again and just narrowly avoided an elbow that would've hit his temple and would probably have knocked him out. 

He swept his leg out to try to catch Rumlow off guard, knock him down for just a second so he could catch his breath, but Rumlow knew what he was doing almost before he did it and blocked his leg with his own, kicking to the side and almost throwing Sam off balance. Sam stumbled, recovering just in time to dodge Rumlow's well-aimed roundhouse kick from the same foot. 

The problem wasn't that Rumlow was so much more skilled than Sam. He was a little bit better, more practiced, but Sam still had the height advantage and a bigger reach. The problem was that Sam had been out of the game for too long, trying to be a civilian while Rumlow had been spending that whole time active in the field, taking down people much larger than himself. He was barely even winded. Sam was finding it harder and harder to breathe.

His throat was clogged, sticky with blood, and his chest burned on every inhale. Christ, he was out of shape. He should've done more running. He should've pushed himself harder in the mornings. He should've tried to keep up with Steve that first time, or he should've run as fast as he could in the other direction so he wouldn't be here now. But he knew in his heart that that had never been an option. 

Over the sounds of his heart pounding and his own ragged panting, he could just barely hear the sound of Hill barking out orders in his earpiece. He had some vague idea that Steve was still on the Helicarrier, long past when he was supposed to have cleared it. But he didn't have time to worry about it, and shortly after that Rumlow caught him by the shoulders and bounced him off of a wall, so it didn't matter anyway because the earpiece went flying out of his head at the impact and that was that. No more connection to the others. 

He got back up quickly and got two lucky hits in with a jab-cross combo when Rumlow thought he was down for the count. He swung his right arm back to follow with a hook, intending to do some real damage, but somehow Rumlow blocked it with his forearm. Sam didn't even know how. He was so much faster than Sam had expected, even after running around with super soldiers and spy assassins all day. 

Following Sam's own momentum from his failed punch, Rumlow pulled him forward by the arm, landing a punch of his own straight onto Sam's face. Sam couldn't help the roar of pain that ripped through him as Rumlow's fist drove into the ruined mess that was his broken nose. The sensation washed over him like a tidal wave, his entire face feeling like it was on fire. It greyed out the edges of his vision, and his tongue felt thick and swollen behind his teeth, like a piece of bloody meat just lying there. Everything from his eyes downwards was agony, inflamed and distended and blocking his oxygen intake. 

Taking advantage of his dazed state, Rumlow grabbed Sam by the front of his t-shirt and flung him bodily to the side. 

Distantly, as though it was happening to somebody else, Sam could feel himself crash through a glass partition between two desks in the emptied out office building. The glass particles sliced his arms, which his body instinctively curled up to protect his face without any conscious input from his brain. He landed heavily on his back with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him entirely once again.

Rumlow jumped onto the top of a desk in a single bound, showing off. His bloodied face was proof that Sam hadn't just been lying back and taking it, but he just. Wasn't. Tired. He showed no signs of slowing down at all, his endurance was borderline inhuman. Standing atop his perch, he loomed over Sam's prone form like an animal about to pounce. Sam could practically feel his shadow falling over him like a pall.

"You're out of your depth, kid," Rumlow uttered in a husky voice, with a smile on his face for some inexplicable reason.

Through the window behind Rumlow's back, Sam could see the giant wing of one of the Helicarriers careening wildly off course threatened to hit the building. It came close enough to scrape the exterior, even, the squeal of steel rending a terrible sound in the air until it stopped just as suddenly as it started. The friction had pushed the aircraft away, so that it continued on its broken path without colliding.

Momentarily distracted by watching the Helicarrier's near miss, Sam didn't see Rumlow leaping off the desk until it was too late to do anything about the boot flying toward his face. Time seemed to slow down, so that it felt like he could feel every fraction of every inch of that boot driving into his jaw, his cheekbone, his brow bone, all the hard and soft parts of his face and bringing with it first a very hot bright light, and then nothing but darkness. 

*

Sam woke to

sounds of shuffling, the muffled rub of fabric against fabric

the light outside filtered by the anti-UV coating on the glass windows, slanting in and glistening on the broken glass around him

some of it grinding into his back

the soft twinkly jingles of that glass as someone walked through it

*

Sam woke to

a hand on his face

he couldn't see whose hand

every contact point between his skin and those fingers hurt

and felt wet

*

Sam woke to 

the taste of copper in the back of his mouth, slick and sliding its way down his gullet

crowding out the air until there was no more room for it in his lungs

*

Sam woke to

a soft squeeze

a thumb and four fingers on either side of his cheeks, closing towards each other so his mouth would open

it helped with breathing for a moment, but then the pain set in, and Sam woke all at once, to Rumlow's hand gripping his jaw, fingers clawing into the slippery wet flesh of his face. He was on his back still, his view of the dappled grey ceiling blocked only by Rumlow's toothy grin. 

Rumlow's mouth moved in the shape of words, but the ringing in Sam's ears prevented him from hearing most of what he said. He only caught the end, something about "tried to warn you, but just had to push your luck," said in that same strangely breathy voice he had been using to taunt Sam since the moment he exploded into the room, like a mockery of a whisper.

Something hit Sam's forehead. It was the buckle of Rumlow's open belt. He hadn't noticed Rumlow moving closer, which clued him in to the fact that he was still slipping in and out of awareness from his concussion, losing full seconds of time to either unconsciousness or confusion. 

The arrhythmic tapping of Rumlow's belt buckle on his head made it hard to concentrate on other things. His world was narrowed to just one sensory stimulus at a time. The next thing he knew, something was at his lips.

Rumlow's cock.

Rumlow's cock was at his lips.

"That's it," he murmured, the death's head grin still spread across his face. The rough material of his combat uniform trousers bunched around Sam's chin. He couldn’t breathe through the thick sludge of blood coating his broken nose, and his mouth was being filled and his jaw ached and everything smelled of wet pennies.

Sam woke to Rumlow's cock in his mouth, pumping steadily past his lips, Rumlow's grunts in his ears, his belt buckle tap tap tapping his forehead. His face throbbed in time with his pulse, which he could feel in the mess of his nose, in the bitten tongue being forced aside by the fat head of Rumlow's cock, in the circles of pain beneath each of the pads of Rumlow's fingers holding his face to keep his mouth open.

Every time Rumlow withdrew meant Sam could suck in a desperately insufficient breath of damp, fetid air from Rumlow's crotch, sweaty with the exertion of their fight and with his current activities. But every time he withdrew also meant he would thrust back in, each time deeper than the last.

"You gotta take it like a man," Rumlow said conversationally, like Sam wasn't lying there, taking every inch of it. "You start a fight like a man, you have to take the consequences like a man. It's only right."

This man would speak to him of rightness when Sam's vision was swimming from too much cock in his mouth and not enough air. Pinpricks of light like little stars burst across his eyes and he drifted with them, even while he could feel Rumlow pushing himself deeper into his mouth, into his throat, too deep.

Sam woke to the smell of vomit cutting through the scent of blood. It was his own. He could still taste the traces in his mouth, could still feel the raw sting of it on his palate as the last throes of gagging worked their way through his body.

The sensation of fabric sliding down his thighs pulled his attention away from smell and taste. Rumlow was pulling his pants down.

"Don't think you can get out of your obligations so easily," Rumlow said in an admonishing tone. "Man up, remember?"

His pants were around his ankles and Sam woke to something cold nudging at his entrance. Not Rumlow's cock, because Rumlow's cock was hot like a brand, Sam had intimate knowledge of just how hot it was exactly. It wasn't easier to breathe with it out of his mouth, and there was vomit pooled around him, and something cold was nudging at his entrance and then it went in.

Sam's head lolled at a perfect angle to take in the sight of Rumlow's belt, still undone, all of the standard issue weapons still on it except for the service pistol Sam had knocked out of his hands when he first entered the room, and except for...the stun baton.

Rumlow was fucking him with the handle of the stun baton.

Sam made an effort to move his sluggish limbs, but they only listened to him intermittently, and not all at the same time, so it resulted in him flailing just slightly. Rumlow slapped his arms back down, and down they stayed.

If Rumlow was fucking him with the handle of the stun baton, it meant that he was holding the business end in his hand, which didn't seem very smart. Although he probably figured Sam wouldn't run the risk of shocking himself if he somehow managed to activate it, since the two of them were forming two points of a circuit.

Rumlow was still talking, still explaining what he was doing and why he was doing it, but it was hard to hear and Sam's vision was tunneling again. 

In Sam's memory, there was no end to it. There was no point at which he realized it was over, no sense of relief that it was finished. There was Rumlow, and then there was a helicopter and yelling, someone gripping his arm as he stumbled through the collapsing rubble of the building, which was maybe more damaged from its brush with the Helicarrier than it initially seemed.

There was someone yelling in his ear, and he responded, although what he couldn't remember.

Rumlow was nowhere to be found.

There was yelling, and then it turned into talking, and then there was the acute smell of antiseptic. The next time Sam woke, it was to Natasha filling him in on what happened with Steve.

*

Sam sat next to Steve's hospital bed, the soft strains of Marvin Gaye's voice soothing his nerves. The first thing Steve had done after he woke up, besides make a smartass remark, was do a double take at Sam's face. From that, Sam could guess he didn't look too pretty. He'd avoided looking at any mirrors so he couldn’t confirm first-hand, but he knew he had a broken nose, a fractured jaw, a bruise the size of a large men's boot. 

When Steve woke up again, he looked much better, practically healed. Sam made a half-hearted joke about wishing he had his abilities, which Steve politely chuckled at before he said, "Sam, are you okay?"

"I'm doing better than you," he said, which wasn't maybe strictly true but also wasn't strictly a lie, considering how by all reports Steve had gone down with the ship like a good captain should—willingly. 

Steve snorted, which was a thing Sam couldn't do with his nose all fucked up the way it was. "What happened?" he asked, all gentle, and Sam couldn't very well tell him.

"Just lost a fight, is all."

"No shit."

"Turns out Rumlow's got a mean kick on him. Doesn’t mean I didn't hold my own, though. You should see _his_ face."

"Yeah, I bet," Steve said, but his face said he wanted to know more, wanted to push for details. "What did he—"

And Sam just. Could not deal. With. The thought of telling Steve to his face that while he was busy contemplating suicide after a run-in with the tortured empty husk of his long lost best friend, Sam was off getting his skull held down and fucked by Steve's former brother in arms. "Please don't ask me," Sam said.

Steve's mouth clicked shut.

The third time Steve woke up, there wasn't a scab left on him and the only thing he asked was, "Do you want to get me out of here and let me sleep on your couch for about a million years?"

"Yes," Sam decided.


End file.
